


Blurred and Spinning

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Character Death, Declarations Of Love, Drug Abuse, Drugs, M/M, Overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:34:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was said, but it was said far too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blurred and Spinning

It was times like these, rolling away from yet another sweaty body, stomach twisting and churning and threatening to force up the bottle of whiskey he'd finished off some time last night, that he wishes, not for the first time, that things had been different. 

He groans as he sits up, the pain in his stomach and head clearing the fog that he'd been sitting in for the past hour as the joint's effects had worn off. He stumbles as he stands, whomever he'd slept with last night snoring away,  grabbing some clothes from the ground and pulling them on without a second thought. 

The cramps in his stomach are getting quite annoying though, so he pads over to the drawer next to his bed and rummages around, pulling out a couple bottles and setting them up in a row. He takes a swig from the bottle of gin on the floor, but groans when the cramps only get worse. He knows he should be worried, because this has been going on for over a week, but between his highs and moments of terrible clarity, he can't find it in himself to care. Without looking he pops the caps and pours out the pills, one by one, but his hand is still shaking and they spill. He grunts again with a fresh wave of pain and staggers out the door and down the stairs, grabbing onto the side of the cabin as he heaves and chokes, spitting up yesterday's alcohol, then bile. When he's sure his stomach has stopped trying to force it's way out of his mouth he spits and steps back, taking deep breaths as last night's lay comes down the stairs and stops for a moment. He can tell they want to say something, probably regarding to how there's the taste of something metallic coating Cas' mouth, but they move on. 

Head still pounding, he walks back inside, blinking a couple times to make sure he's seeing the room right, and makes his way back to the nightstand. Water will do nothing, and it's a precious resource, so he downs the bottle of gin instead, and picks up the bottle of pills, shaking out a couple into the palm of his hand. He dry swallows these, but grimaces at the feeling of them sliding down his throat, so he reaches out for the days old beer he knows is somewhere close to the bed.

It was times like these that he wishes he didn't know what week-old beer mixed with several different pills of whatever-the-fuck he'd grabbed this time tasted like. It takes a couple minutes, but soon he's feeling light and ignorant, forgetting for an hour or two that the world had gone to shit and he'd gone with it. But soon enough he remembers–he always does. Sure, there's the odd spot here or there where it's just blank instead of a memory, but they're far and few in between. Chuck says it's because he's still got some grace left. Cas thinks it's horseshit. 

But this time the world doesn't return entirely, still spinning and pulsing slightly, and as he reaches for the bottles again he knocks them down, and he curses  as he sighs and completes the complicated task of hauling his body to it's feet. Rather than attempt to reach down and grab the pills scattered across the floorboards, he yanks open the drawer again and picks out a completely different set of pills, grabbing them from the bottle and placing them on his tongue, scrunching his nose as different, sharp flavors explode on it, swallowing them with the flat beer as he jerks forward. In the grimy sink mirror he can see his twisted reflection, blurring and stretching. Suddenly there are glowing blue wings behind him and he breathes in, reaching for them, but his hand closes over nothing. As usual. 

It only takes another errant thought and then green eyes and freckles and tan skin and stubble is standing behind him, hand on his shoulder, a spark in his eyes that he hasn't seen in years. He mouths the words, ' _I love you'_.

He mouths them back and then green eyes and warmth and _love_ are gone and he scrubs a hand over his face, picking up the empty bottle of whiskey in the sink and tosses it in some direction, hearing a satisfying _smash_ and grins. He hates his hallucinations.

His stomach is tossing again and he's sick of this cabin, this run down shithole of sex and booze and drugs, and all but jumps out the door as the walls start closing in.

It was times like these that he wishes he could still fly. He knows he can't run right now, a second best, and sighs as he ambles slowly down the path, his feet taking him where he wants to go. He finds tabs of something in his pocket as he passes their fearless leader's cabin, swallowing them as the early morning mist begins to rise. He stops in front of some old oak tree and tips forward, pressing his forehead to the rough bark as his knees give out, the scraping sensation dulled but still surprisingly pleasant as he slides to the ground, falling on his side. He breaths in the rich soil and wonders if they'll bury him there when he dies.

He breathes in again and wonders what else had died there, had fruited the soil that the oak tree had grown it's roots in. He wonders how old the tree is, how many animals have lived in it's branches, how many times it had shed it's leaves as the death of winter blew in only to grow them back as spring thawed the earth. 

He giggles, wondering if he could grow his wings back if spring came. Maybe he could. He should get up and ask their fearless leader about it, but his limbs are too heavy. His eyes are closed, he realizes. He wonders when that happened. 

It doesn't matter much, though, because green eyes are there and staring into his, and that smell is all around him, curling and soothing him. But he's cold.

" _I love you,"_ he whispers, and there's black in the corners of this illusion, and the green is fading but he doesn't want it to, and suddenly it feels like he's floating, appendages limp and unmoving, pressed into warmth, but he's shivering.

I love you.I love youIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou _IloveyouIloveyou I love you_

Dean hears him whisper the last scratchy, "I love you," before the man in his arms fades. He doesn't know why he picked him up; it was obvious that he was almost gone.

He finds it hard to breath and hefts the body a little higher, seeing out of the corner of his eye, the inhabitants of the camp stepping out of their doors to watch him carry Castiel's dead, limp body through the grass. He climbs up the steps, one foot after the other, and takes him inside, lays him out on his bed. He grabs his writs and feels for a pulse, knowing fully well that he's not going to find one, but it still feels like a punch to the gut when there's not so much as a twitch under his fingertips. 

No one says a word when he grabs a shovel and silently starts digging in front of the old oak tree where he'd found him, not stopping until the sun was nearly down and he struggled to climb out of the hole he'd made. He didn't bother with much of anything, just carried the body out of his cabin and let him drop into the pit with a _thud._ He starts shoveling the dirt back in with mechanical movements, not even flinching as the first shower of dirt fell over his face and glazed-over eyes. It's almost midnight when he finally drops the shovel, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He picks up the bottle of whiskey he'd been drinking from the base of the tree and takes another gulp. Then he sticks his arm out and lets the rest of it pour out over the grave, letting the bottle fall when it's empty. He stares at the picture in front of him for a few minutes, then pulls out his knife, and steps forward. 

He carves the word, "C-A-S," into the tree, as deep as he could, then steps back. It's a fucking pitiful sight, if he's being honest, but it's a half a damn better than throwing him with the others, to be burned at the end of the week. 

"I love you too, you stupid, idiotic fucking son of a bitch."

And then he turned and headed back to his cabin, much too aware that it was far too late. 


End file.
